


It's Called Fashion, Potter

by peachpety



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Boys Kissing, Clothed Sex, Clothing Kink, Draco Malfoy is a Fashion Maven, Drinking, Dry Humping, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, HP Kinkuary 2021, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, House Party, Jealousy, Jewelry, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Semi-Public Sex, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29514255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachpety/pseuds/peachpety
Summary: Draco Malfoy is not above utilizing every weapon in his closet arsenal to acquire his heart’s desire. Harry Potter is not above falling victim to the power of a sharp dressed man. The story of two pining idiots getting together with the help of their exasperated friends and a matchmaking designer choker.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 20
Kudos: 221
Collections: HP Kinkuary 2021





	It's Called Fashion, Potter

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my autumn drabble, [flannel is a love language](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27227572), from my [Autumn Drarry Drabbles](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956262), because I can't get enough of fashion maven Draco Malfoy. Special thanks to my betas, MysticKitten42 and toluene, for putting up with my million and one drafts and tweaking of a single sentence, good grief. Big love y'all! enjoy! xoxo peach

Draco knows the moment Harry enters Theo’s flat.

Not only does his artfully contrived perch on the arm of a creamy leather chair afford him a direct line of sight to the door, but his magic flares, a white-hot beast attuned to Harry’s magical wavelength, stretching to life and licking warmth at the base of his spine. 

Across the room, Harry is all smiles and happy-to-see-yous. He looks delectable in a black cashmere jumper, and Draco forgives him the well-worn jeans, but only because the faded fabric broadcasts that Harry packs his crotch to the left.

Pansy and Hermione encroach on his view. Drinks and hors d'oeuvre plates trail suspended in the air behind them. 

“Close your mouth, darling,” Pansy says. “Your Potter-lust is showing.” She Levitates a glass to Theo seated in the chair upon which Draco sits.

Hermione settles back into Theo’s lap and offers him a petit four from a crystal plate. She chases it with a chaste peck on his lips.

“I do not lust for _Potter,_ ” Draco sneers. 

He takes the drink intended for Theo and scoots Pansy out of the way with a current of magic for a clear view of Harry embracing Ron. The movement pulls Harry’s jumper taut around his broad shoulders and back. A sliver of tanned skin peeks out as the hem hitches.

Pansy tuts. “The drool on your chin begs to differ.”

“Says the witch whose panties burst into flame at the mere mention of greenhouses.”

“Says the twink whose only pull is to climb chairs and _trees_ like a goddamn monkey.”

Draco sticks out his tongue. Pansy returns the gesture.

“Our kids are squabbling again, sweetheart,” Theo sighs. 

Hermione tips her glass to Theo’s lips. “It’s their love language,” she says, lifting her chin. “I found a fascinating book on the subject in that Muggle bookshop the other day.” She turns the glass to sip from where Theo had drunk. 

Harry glances around the room. His eyes skim over Draco and then dart back to linger. Draco’s heart leaps up into his throat and thrums against the cold links of his sterling choker—the same choker Harry has admired. From afar, yes, but more recently, up close and personal at Hermione and Theo’s engagement party last week. But Draco wore the jewelry because it suits his ensemble, and _not_ because Harry’s thigh had been warm and firm beneath Draco’s hand under the table. 

Harry winks, his smile a mere uptick of the mouth corners. Draco wets his lips, and Harry glances away all bashful and flushed, bottom lip caught in a quick flash of pearly canine. 

Draco considers indulging the urge to run over, dive his fingers into Harry’s ridiculous hair and lick that smirk right off his stupidly handsome face. His pulse quickens at the thought.

“So, Pans,” Theo says, “where did Mr. Longbottom scamper off to anyway?”

Pansy uses her straw to stir the ice in her glass. “Nev popped over to his Gran’s.” Her deep sigh nearly heaves her ample bosom out of her bodycon dress.

“They have family in from America,” Hermione adds.

“Some fifteenth cousin thrice removed, can you believe?”

Draco hums, half listening and half watching Harry laugh and carry on with Ron. Harry runs his hand up into his hair and sneaks a peek at Draco over that beautifully bunched bicep. 

Pansy kicks Draco with the pointy toe of her Louboutin. “Pay attention to my plight, for fuck's sake,” she whines. “My eye candy has buggered off.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean.” A shift on the arm of the chair and a nonchalant slouch against the chair back allows Draco to elongate his leg. Darkening green eyes follow the pinstripes lining his trousers from his ankle to hip. Draco’s magic purrs, gratified.

“Look at you,” Pansy says. “Preening like a bloody peacock. When will the eye fucking progress to actual fucking?” She stabs her straw at a cherry swimming at the bottom of her drink. “I’m already bored.” 

“Soon, we expect,” Theo says. “Right, 'Mione?”

“He _is_ wearing the Saint Laurent,” Hermione says, wiggling her eyebrows.

Draco scowls and slouches further, smoothing a wrinkle from his sheer lace button-up. “Now I’ve certainly no idea what you mean.”

Smug satisfaction pinches Pansy’s face. “The choker, darling. The choker Harry salivated over at brunch last week. You were practically sitting in his lap, pet.” She puts her straw between her teeth and smirks. 

Draco sneers at her. “Isn’t it time for your milk and arsenic, _darling?_ ” 

“Now now, Pans,” Theo says. “Let’s be fair. It was only his hand groping the Golden lap.” 

Draco squawks, bolting upright in indignation. 

Pansy’s hyena laughter draws Potter’s attention. He grabs a shot glass from a passing waiter’s tray, tosses it back in one swallow, and disengages from his conversation with Ron. He takes two steps in Draco’s direction, only to be waylaid by Ginerva Weasley. She places her hand to Harry’s jaw and leans in to whisper in Harry’s ear. Harry laughs, cheeks pinking. 

Something cold and nasty, foul but familiar, skitters around in Draco’s chest. “My, my, my, isn’t she droll, Harry’s ex with whom he is still so chummy.” Draco doesn’t realize he’s standing until Hermione rubs her foot over his calf. 

“Steady on,” she says, eyebrow lifting.

“Ginny!” Luna calls from the kitchen. “Hi, Lover!”

Draco’s mind hitches on the endearment. He watches Luna skip across the room and into Ginny’s waiting arms. The growl in Draco’s chest loosens, settling near his baseline rumble—a purr strangely buoyant, a lightness akin to relief.

Pansy pierces Draco with a fierce look, eyes glinting, as if bestowed with divine knowledge. She purses her red lips into a delighted pout. 

_Fuck you_ , Draco mouths.

Ginny and Luna chat together as Harry looks on, amused and indulgent, hands stuffed into his pockets. The girls wave him off, and he disappears through an open doorway leading to the back bedrooms, his magic a siren call urging Draco to follow.

Draco’s glass suddenly empties.

“I think you need another drink,” Hermione says, tucking her wand away.

Draco catches her eye, and she scrunches her nose. He blows her a kiss and points himself toward the back of the flat.

Pansy’s voice travels over his shoulder as he retreats. “You’d better quench that thirst in the hallway or I’ll never speak to you again.”

* * *

Harry knows the moment Draco arrives in the hallway.

Not only does his casual lean against the wall provide a direct line of sight of the doorway, but his magic roils, a hot blue tempest, cresting and rippling in response to Draco’s magical signature. The wall, thankfully, supports him. He’s a little breathless and a lot enchanted by Draco’s attire—by Draco himself, truth be told. 

Draco walks the hall like a runway, all long legs and smooth gait. He’s fucking gorgeous in tight pinstripe pants, and Harry decides that his button-up should be illegal. The lace offers an occasional glimpse of petal pink nipples. 

“Tell me this, Potter,” Draco drawls. “How many more parties are we to suffer celebrating Theo and Hermione’s pending union, for fuck’s sake?” He hands Harry a shot glass full of amber liquid. Elegant fingers trail over Harry’s knuckles in the handoff, red-painted nails shining.

“A fuckton, apparently,” Harry manages to croak.

Draco tips the liquor into his mouth, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, a wave beneath the silver links of that fucking choker.

Harry stares. He knows he’s ogling— _fuck_ —he can’t look away. His heart slams into his ribs, and his cheeks warm at the memory of wanking to an embarrassingly quick finish to thoughts of that necklace.

Draco leans against the wall, shoulder pressing hot into Harry’s.

Harry shifts closer. “I don’t mind, though.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a blond prat who always shows up wearing something...” Harry’s voice trails and he waves his hand at Draco vaguely. 

Draco sucks his teeth and folds his arms across his chest, prickly and perfect, and Harry wants to devour him. 

“Something what?” Draco challenges.

“Gorgeous.” Harry clears the tremor from his throat. “You look gorgeous.” 

“That’s because I am gorgeous,” Draco says in a matter-of-fact tone.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Cocky bastard.”

“Where’s the lie?”

Harry taps his temple, causing a pesky curl to fall into his eye. 

“And pray,” Draco says softly. “What lies float around under Harry Potter’s pretty curls?” He inserts his finger into the rogue spiral, pinching the dark strands, pulling it taut.

“That he’s wanted,” Harry says. His magic vibrates, stretching wide, exposing hopes and dreams to tumble forth, unfiltered. “That he has a chance. That he’s worthy of—” 

The curl springs free, and Draco presses forward, capturing Harry’s hopes with a kiss. Harry’s eyes go wide and he freezes, mind hitching on _pale skin_ , and _warm lips, and_ _sparkly cheekbones_ , before suddenly Draco’s retreating.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says, frowning. “I shouldn’t have—” 

Harry pounces. He crowds Draco against the wall. “Oh, you _definitely_ should have.” He slides his fingers into the short hair at the back of Draco’s head, cinching it tight. 

A shiver cascades through Draco that Harry feels coiling through his own body. A gentle tug at silky strands pulls Draco’s head back. He offers his neck, a surrender given without hesitation. The necklace glints in the dim light. 

Harry ghosts his lips over the cold chain. “I like this choker.” 

“I know,” Draco says, a smug smile bunches his cheeks beneath a blush. “You’ve said.”

Harry draws back, cringing. “Oh god. I had quite a bit to drink that day. I should never have said—”

“Oh, you _most definitely_ should have.” Draco clutches Harry’s waist, pulling him back, fitting their bodies together seamlessly, lips to hips. 

Loud laughter punches through Harry’s haze; a reminder that the world dares to exist outside of a willing body long desired packaged in designer wrapping. He frowns at the party barely visible through the doorway at the end of the hall. Laughter swells. Bodies shift. He registers red smiling lips and bushy hair through a shimmer of magic that seals the doorway.

“Come back to me.” Draco sucks Harry’s earlobe between his teeth, each pull of soft lips spreading the muscles in Harry’s groin, each suck of hot tongue a throb through Harry’s cock.

“I’m already there,” he breathes. He relaxes into the comforting solidity of Draco’s body and nuzzles Draco’s neck, tongue sliding between cold metal and hot flesh.

“Good.” Draco wraps his limbs around Harry. “Now tell me more about how much you adore my attire.”

Harry laughs. “Well, you know how I feel about the necklace” — he bites the chain and tugs — “but this shirt, _bloody hell._ ” He dips his head to lay his tongue over a nipple peeking through delicate lace.

Draco arches up. “It’s called fashion, Potter,” he gasps, “look it up.”

Harry nibbles, wetting the fabric until a pink nub pushes against the translucent lace while Draco squirms. “I like to think that you wore this for me,” Harry says. He feels Draco’s chuckle against his lips.

“I always like to look impeccable.” Draco cards his fingers through Harry’s hair. “But yes, I did select my ensemble with you in mind.”

Harry’s heart trips over a beat, caught unawares by the confession. He lifts his gaze to meet grey eyes, shining and vulnerable. “ _Fuck,_ ” he groans, a whine scratching the back of his throat. 

Draco swipes a moan into Harry’s mouth with his tongue. Harry opens willingly and is immediately lost. Draco’s body shifts against him and Harry gives in to the movement, an undulation of the hips, a drag of his cock against a sharp hip bone. Somewhere in the back of his mind Harry registers the party and his magic strobes a warning. But the caress of soft lace, the weight of firm muscle, the taste of lips as sweet as he imagined snuffs out any alarm. 

He’s hardly processed that he’s dry humping Draco Malfoy in the hallway of Theo’s flat, in direct sight of anyone looking for the loo, when Draco moans his name. And Harry comes, releasing like an unruly curl stretched to its limit and freed, recoiling, reforming.

Draco holds him close, his hands a soothing pressure over the shuddering plane of Harry’s back. 

Embarrassment warms Harry’s neck, ears, face. “Fuck,” he says again. He buries his shame in Draco’s neck. The necklace bites against his cheek.

“Well, now… ” Draco lifts Harry’s head with a firm hand to his jaw. An earnest, hopeful expression suffuses Draco’s face and nearly brings Harry to his knees. 

“I can’t wait for you to see what I’m wearing underneath my pinstripes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me indulgently lurking on [tumblr](http://peachpety.tumblr.com/).


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